


The One to Hold My Heart

by dangerousdaydream



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confession, M/M, Soldier!John, Unilock, mentions of drug abuse, oh god why am I writing this, probably going to be a chapter!fic, this is a gift for someone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:56:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerousdaydream/pseuds/dangerousdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a scary thing, this falling business. Feeling like you have virtually no control over your heart, feeling yourself need another person more and more with each passing day...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confession

**Author's Note:**

> I'm incredibly nervous to post this for more than a few reasons, mostly because this is a gift for my really good friend and I'm terrible at writing Johnlock. Bleh. But this is also my way of... Well. You'll understand when you read it. I hope you enjoy, and as always, please let me know what you think!

It was the single most terrifying thing the young man had ever done. Of course, saying that was a bit ridiculous given how many times he had gotten himself into strange and dangerous situations, how close he had come to overdosing on cocaine on more than one occasion, how often he so carelessly danced with the devil -- but this time was different. How was it different? Because he was completely sober and completely out of his mind for thinking this was a good idea, but he knew that like everything else he did in life, the outcome, should it be a good one, was well worth the risk.

He paced around his tiny flat, books scattered all over the ground, papers everywhere, experiments on the desk and the tables and the counter in his kitchen. He ran a nervous hand through his dark, unruly hair and he sighed heavily. He was a mess, both literally and figuratively, and how anyone could stand him was beyond his brilliant mind, but somehow one person was able to. One young man, not related to him by blood, not like his brother. One person who wasn't obligated to care for him. An unlikely meeting had brought the two together and they became fast friends, and now, months after they had gotten close, one Sherlock Holmes was afraid he was falling in love.

It was a scary thing, this falling business. Feeling like you have virtually no control over your heart, feeling yourself need another person more and more with each passing day... It was maddening. Sherlock compared it to spinning as a young boy. He'd loved to stand beneath millions of stars and look up at the sky, and one night he'd wanted to spin in a circle. So he did. He spun with his arms stretched out on both sides, his eyes gazing up at the stars, and for a moment he could feel the planet spinning with him. He spun and spun until gravity took hold of him and he fell. He fell hard and fast and without any warning at all. That was what this was like.

The young man had never felt anything for another person like what he felt for the blond medical student. John was a conductor of light, a shining beacon of hope in the despair that had overwhelmed Sherlock's life at uni. John was a warm, friendly face that was actually able to form a genuine smile when those gorgeous eyes found Sherlock's. John could stare back into those fathomless icy blue orbs and not flinch. John didn't think that his friend, while unorthodox and confusing at times, was a complete freak like most of the world did. Sherlock knew he didn't have to be the stoic Holmes boy he was raised to be around the young man with the strong arms that made him feel like he was /home/ for the first time in his life. He had never wanted someone to see through his walls so badly, never needed another person the way he needed John, and while he couldn't find a reason for anyone in their right mind to love his fucked up self, he knew that if anyone could, John could.

But here's the catch: the man was destined to go off for basic training in less than a month. Sherlock knew that he wouldn't see his friend for a long time after he went off for training, and the thought of being alone was enough to make him feel a bit crazy, but the thought that followed, the one that told him there was a chance John wouldn't return? /That/ was the thought that made him realize that he had to take the risk.

And so it was with a trembling pair of hands and a nervous glance in the mirror that Sherlock adjusted his suit for the umpteenth time, made sure his hair looked presentable, and pulled out his phone. He pressed the familiar name in his contacts list, the name that warmed his heart and gave him /hope/, and he cleared his throat of the lump that had gotten itself wedged in there just as that warm voice filled his ear.

"'S one in the morning, Sherlock."

"I know. I'm sorry to wake you, but... I needed to talk to you."

A soft grunt echoed through the phone and Sherlock knew John was sitting upright now, no doubt rubbing his eyes. "Mkay," he murmured. "What is it? You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said automatically, then paused and shook his head. "No, actually, that was a lie. I'm afraid, John."

"Afraid?" Now John sounded more alert. "Of what? What's going on, Sherlock? Do you need me to come over?"

Sherlock wanted to say yes, wanted so badly to just do this in person so John could see how awkward he was and how serious his confession was as well, but suddenly his throat seized and he couldn't find the words he needed to say what he so longed to say. "I just," he said quietly, shaking his head. He felt pathetic. "The Army, John. Are you sure? Something could happen to you over there."

A sound resembling a relieved sigh filled Sherlock's left ear and the young man let out a similar one of his own. "Still worried I'll get shot, are you?"

"That's the least of my worries."

"Why don't I come over tomorrow night and we can talk all about it? You can ask me any questions you want and I promise you I'll be completely honest."

"What good would that do?"

"Might give you some peace of mind."

Sherlock hesitantly agreed and the two hung up, but now the young scientist was panicked even more. How was he supposed to tell John he had feelings for him when the boy was going away for years at a time with no guarantee of survival? Was it selfish of him for wanting to tell him regardless?

Sherlock needed to calm his racing mind, and only one thing was able to do that. He searched his drawer for the impeccable needle and a small bag of white and the rest of the night passed in a calm high, followed by a crash that left him asleep until early the next evening.

The soft knock on his door at half seven startled Sherlock out of his trance-like state and he found himself panicked again. Was he ready to do this? He smoothed out his now wrinkled suit, ran his hand through his hair a few times, and he stood up shakily, tossing all evidence that he had been using again into a drawer as that soft knock became more pronounced, more firm. "Just a second," he called, looking frantically around to make sure everything was alright, then he made his way to the door and took a deep, shuddering breath before he opened it. "John," he greeted, stepping aside to allow the man inside.

John smiled up at Sherlock, hands stuffed in his pockets as he walked inside. "It's fucking /cold/ out there tonight, innit? You been outside today? Madness. Absolute madness. Middle of April and it's cold as hell."

"Is it?" Sherlock said absently as he closed the door. "Hm. Did you want tea? I have tea. If you want it." He swallowed and mentally kicked himself for sounding so nervous.

Thankfully, John didn't catch on. "Tea would be lovely, actually. Thank you." He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack beside the door, then watched Sherlock fumble with the cups in the kitchen. "You seem a bit jumpy, mate. What's up?"

"Nothing." Liar. His hands were trembling again, making it hard for him to hold onto anything without the danger of it falling. He sighed as he attempted to fill John's cup and hand it to him without spilling it all over.

"You sure? You're shaking." John lifted his cuppa to his lips for a moment, then frowned considerably and lowered it again. "Are you high again?"

Sherlock wished he could have ignored the obvious disapproval in John's voice. Or the subtle worry. But he couldn't, and it made him feel incredibly guilty. "Not anymore, no." Yet another reminder that this infatuation he had over the other man in the room was completely foolish. John wouldn't want some druggie with other bad habits and a knack for getting himself in harm's way more often than not. He deserved a stable, happy partner in life. Someone who could be his prince, if that was what he wanted.

But Sherlock loved John and John had a right to know before he went off and possibly forgot about that damned friend of his whom he met by chance.

"Something troubling you, then?" John asked after the silence had stretched out too long. "The Army thing again? Look, I know it sounds scary, but I'll be okay, really--"

"I love you, John," Sherlock said quietly, his back still turned to his friend.

John blinked in surprise. He fell silent for a few moments before he found his voice again. "You...?"

"I know it may not be what you want to hear, given your inevitable departure and your decision to be a doctor in the military, but I couldn't let you go without telling you that I've fallen in love with you. My best friend. Oh god, I've become a walking cliché. How dreadful..." He finally turned to John and stared blankly at the man. "But there it is. I'm... I love you, John."

John seemed to piece together things in his mind that Sherlock hadn't yet explained, because the next thing he said was, "So that's why you're afraid then? Because you realized you were... falling in love with me?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling far too vulnerable and awkward for his taste. He averted his gaze and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I know it's completely ridiculous and that you could never reciprocate my affections, but the thought of you leaving and not knowing that there's someone who cares that much for you was maddening. I don't know why it feels that way, but it does, and yeah I'm not the best guy out there for you and you're probably not even a fan of blokes like I am, but--"

"Sherlock."

The anxious young man looked up and was startled to find that John was right in front of him now, smiling up at him in a way that suggested... No. No, he couldn't. Could he? Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded, finding it hard to speak with John this close to him. A million and one things were going through his mind, most of them reasons why John Watson shouldn't be interested in Sherlock Holmes, but that look in his eye and the way he was smiling seemed to prove all of those reasons in his head false.

"You talk too much sometimes, you know that?" John's smile was warm and soft. He stood on his toes then, his hands resting on Sherlock's shoulders, and he pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It didn't matter if it didn't make sense. It didn't matter if their friendship came about because of a chance meeting. What mattered was that although Sherlock saw nothing of value in himself, John clearly did, and when Sherlock was with the soldier he felt just a bit calmer. Warm, gentle hands moved to hold his face as timid, longish ones held the shorter boy by the waist, and for a long moment, Sherlock forgot about the impending goodbyes and the screaming voices in his head. He had John right here, right now, and that was all he needed.


	2. Missing You Never Hurt So Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, John was coming home. Whether it was for a week or a month didn't matter. What mattered was Sherlock was going to see him again. He was going to be able to kiss him and hold him and tell him how proud of his brave soldier he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Okay so a quick note about this chapter: I wrote it in a few hours and over the course of the last two weeks or so, I keep going back and changing things. I've been sick for a while now, so if it makes no goddamn sense, I'm sorry. H-Heh. I figured I would just post the damn thing before I drive myself mental over it, so here you go!

The time in between Sherlock's confession and John's imminent departure passed by far too quickly for both's liking, but in that time they established a few things. No labels were placed on their relationship, but both were desperately in love with the other, so although it was unspoken between them they knew it was only a matter of time. Sherlock was to keep going, to push through the pain if something happened to John, because the soldier couldn't bear the thought of being the reason his best friend gave up living. Sherlock didn't argue with him on that one, but that was because he couldn't convincingly tell him he would be okay. He knew he wouldn't be. Sherlock without John didn't make sense anymore.

Now, John was coming home. Whether it was for a week or a month didn't matter. What mattered was Sherlock was going to see him again. He was going to be able to kiss him and hold him and tell him how proud of his brave soldier he was.

Mycroft had let it slip that John would be returning in a week, and Sherlock's face when he learned the news was happy and exhilarated and everything John made him feel. One week. Seven short days until they could be together again.

He could wait. He'd wait forever for John.

~*~*~

Six days, four hours, twelve minutes.

Eleven minutes.

Ten.

Sherlock laid wide awake in his bed late one night, staring up at the ceiling as he counted down the time left until he could finally sleep again. After watching the minutes slowly tick by and feeling himself grow increasingly more tense with each one that passed, the young consulting detective sat up and turned to the dresser beside his bed, rummaging through the top drawer before he pulled out a small stack of envelopes. He and John had been exchanging letters over the last year or so, and Sherlock kept each and every letter. The paper was softened from the number of times it had been opened and folded again, the writing still visible as ever, though, written in iron pen. The familiarity of that handwriting was all that got Sherlock through his day-to-day life sometimes.

As far as these eight letters said, John was happy with his decision to enlist. He felt a certain companionship with his brothers in arms that he desperately needed, and he had many stories for when he returned home. Because he was going to return. He wouldn't be killed out there, no way. Sherlock read them over yet again, smiling at all of the same parts and feeling himself miss his best friend more than he already had. He laid back down and curled up into a ball, his breathing uneven as he imagined John in his Army uniform, John with a military-issued rifle, John crouched down in a ditch just praying for another day...

Sherlock couldn't take this. He couldn't handle the thought that although he had been granted a holiday, he wouldn't live to see it. He hated feeling like the closer they got to that plane landing at the airport, the further away John really was. What if something had changed and John didn't love him anymore? What if... No. Now was not the time to think. He got up and walked over to his desk, retrieving a sanitized needle and a small white bag, full of what he hoped would quell the raging fear inside of him. He returned to his bed and sat down, fumbling in his emotional state with the variables that would produce blissful calm before fingers poised over a prominent vein, needle held between them. He counted to two before pressing the needle inside, inhaling sharply as his head tilted back for a moment.

Six days, three hours, forty-one minutes.

~*~*~

Sherlock was in a crazed state for the rest of the week, always either higher than a kite because he needed to calm his trumpeting thoughts or sarcastic and bitter because no one seemed to care that John was coming home in a few days. Of course, he was completely wrong in that assumption, but that's how it felt. He paced about his flat at all hours of the night, cleaning up his clothes and whatnot before getting frustrated because there were too many damn shirts in his basket and throwing them all over again. He started experiments only to find they were all dull and boring and of course eyeballs turn that color in that liquid, what was he /thinking/.

Two days, eight hours, fifty-five minutes.

~*~*~

The day before John's flight was to land in London, Sherlock spent the entire twenty-four hours thinking. He'd run out of cocaine the night before and he knew John didn't like that nasty habit of his, so he tried to keep his mind on something else. And normally that "something else" was John. But no, not today. Today it was death and disappointment and anger. Today it was reunions gone wrong because one half was a fuck-up and the other perfect and the time apart had proved they belonged that way. Apart. Separated.

It was bloodied corpses and gunshots and letters from the government sending condolences for a loss. It was John's beautiful face mangled by an explosion, it was the way his skin hung from his bones, it was the dog tags he would have in place of strong arms to hold him at night. Sherlock felt strapped to the bed, brought down by these heavy thoughts. His heart ached and he whimpered, turning onto his side as he closed his eyes but no, that wasn't good either, because there was that gorgeous smile that made him feel like everything was okay when it wasn't, it just wasn't, John was still in danger and not home.

Eighteen hours, five minutes.

Four.

Three.

Sherlock pressed his hands to his ears and whimpered again. Damned neighbors were fighting like cats and dogs. The woman must have made a mistake finally, left a clue to her affair, and her husband was severely cross with her. Of course. This had to happen /today/.

Eighteen hours, two minutes.

If John were here, he would hold Sherlock and tell him that the screaming and banging above his flat had nothing to do with him, that their row was between them. That he was safe. And Sherlock would believe him and would be okay again because John said it was okay and he was the only person the young, troubled man believed. The only one he trusted.

Seventeen hours, fifty-nine minutes.

There was still so much to do before John came home, but Sherlock knew Mike Stamford was handling the homecoming party, so there was nothing to distract him from the screaming that had gone from angry and defensive to frightened. He was attacking her. Sherlock should do something.

John would do something.

Just then, the noise upstairs ceased and Sherlock sat up, wondering what had happened. He had half a mind to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and go investigate when he heard the faint sound of a door clicking shut. Maybe she decided to walk away. To get out of there before something horrible happened.

But no, that couldn't be it, because he still heard two sets of footsteps up there. So why...?

His unspoken question was answered when he heard the sound of a knock at his door. He stood up and ran a hand over his suit in an attempt to smooth it out. Of course, he'd been in this thing for nearly two days straight, so it was kind of futile to do so. Still, it made him feel better as he went off to the front of his flat.

He stopped short in the doorway, a gasp caught in his throat. Tears filled his eyes faster than he could stop them and he didn't bother fighting them, allowing them to fall down his pale cheeks. One word came to mind; a name, simple and honest -- the only name he wanted associated with his own. "John."


End file.
